


Winning Streak

by defyinggravity1992



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: District Four, F/F, Indigenous, LGBT, Prequel, Rebellion, Resistance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-25 14:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15642498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defyinggravity1992/pseuds/defyinggravity1992
Summary: Some four decades after the inception of the Hunger Games, a terrible tragedy prompts an unlikely young hero to rise from the sea-soaked shores of District Four. The tale of one indigenous orphan’s battle with the Capitol itself.——“Don’t worry,” the Dockmaster mused, running a manicured hand through his graying hair. “I’ve got more important fish for you to babysit.”And that is how I became a lifeguard for our District’s unofficial Hunger Games Training Center.





	1. Cairo and the Dockmaster

My name is Jillian. I guess that’s as good a place as any to start. This journal feels like an interview, and I’ve never liked those. Jillian Anfersan, I won the Hunger Games a few years back – well, Cairo and I won the 43rd Annual Hunger Games, but that might be getting ahead of myself.  
It feels a little silly to be writing to people who might not ever exist. But on the off chance you are alive to find this one day, I should tell you more about my life, so you’ll start to understand what happened, as it actually happened.  
I wasn’t always a traitor to my country.  
When I was a kid, I thought my home was the best place in the world. District Four wasn’t as glamorous as the Capitol or even District One where they exported luxury goods, but living so close to the ocean was intoxicating. We had enough food to keep our stomachs from growling too loudly, and compared to what little we knew of the other districts, we knew our life was a good one. Even in West Key, the poorest island, we slept soundly in the assurance that there were those far less fortunate. At least when we died, it was from drowning or heat stroke, not from starvation.  
But enough about that. I’m taking too many words to tell you we were all poor and complacent. There was one exception, though – my mother. She was absolutely brilliant and saw through all the deception. More importantly, she taught me to see through it, and ultimately, to use it.  
My mother was a Peacekeeper’s Wife. A sex worker. I didn’t know the word for it back then; I just knew that she wasn’t married and had a lot of male visitors. She would send me out to the sea while they came to our house. I had been swimming since before I could walk, so I wasn’t in any danger. Maybe later I’ll tell you about my only near-death experience with the ocean. But for now, just know that our Father Poseidon and Mother Calypso watched over me. Most people wouldn’t believe I’m religious. Trust me, if you’d been through what I have, you’d want something to believe in, too.  
Compared to the Hunger Games, the ocean’s riptides are a bubble bath.  
So my mother was what we call a Peacekeeper’s Wife. I’m not sure when I found out what that really meant – maybe I was nine or ten – but when I asked her about it, she told me with a soft smile that she worked this way so that I would have the life she never could. She calmly took me in her arms and told me a story about Poseidon and Calypso, and how their lovemaking resulted in the birth of the new moon each month. In that moment, I honestly believed that my mother was the Goddess, that every story the old women on our island told was secretly about her.  
Anyway, when I was twelve, she died of what the doctors called an infection, and that’s all I have to say about that.  
This is when Cairo comes into the story. I was living in the Orphan’s Home, which is anything but a home, when he came to our school as an initiative with the Safer Dockworkers Program. I won’t explain the specifics of his course, but the aqua-engineers who designed docking programs for our fishermen had decided to humor their youngest recruit. At fourteen, Cairo Laval was already accustomed to having his way. When I say he was the smartest in the class, I mean he taught the class. Teachers either adored or hated him. The girls in my class fawned over his thick, dark hair and piercing blue eyes. The boys gave him glares that could freeze fire, and as for me… I saw a way to use the prodigy child.  
While my classmates were worried about their hair or the pitch of their voices or their designer clothes modeled after Capitol Couture, I started to swim a solid five miles a day (give or take) and mastered the curriculum of Cairo’s safety course in less than a week. The know-it-all was being shown up in his own classroom, and rather than give me detention, he got me a job.  
“Anyone who works as hard as you do without pay deserves a chance to make money for it,” he said as we strode into the heart of the docking industry, the Iron Tower. Coated in white plaster to resist deteriorating in the salty winds, the Iron Tower looks more like a white salt pillar someone jabbed into the sandy soil one day. Cairo walked as if he owned the place – for all I knew then, he might, someday. “I’ve scheduled an appointment with Director Hart.”  
“The Dockmaster?”  
“He hates being called that.” Of course, this fourteen-year-old was on speaking terms with the most powerful man in District Four. Of course. “He prefers Director Hart or Mr. Hart, and only his wife can call him Sami.”  
“I don’t want to know how you know that.”  
“No,” he replied, in that clipped accent that rich Mainlanders use to mimic the Capitol accent. “You don’t.” 

We had arrived at the receptionist’s desk, and she waved Cairo in without a second glance at me. I didn’t take it personally; I wasn’t the type of girl who got second glances from anybody, much less a well-dressed lady from the Mainland. I was of average height and build for a thirteen-year-old; I had long black hair and brown eyes, and next to Cairo, I was as dark as a seaman in the sun. 

Hopefully the Dockmaster wouldn’t care about any of those things. He was powerful enough to get a fourteen-year-old working with engineering graduates; maybe he would see fit to give me employment. Anything with a paycheck could be my ticket out of the Orphan’s Home. My mother’s old landlady, Señora Jimena, had told me to come back when I was grown and could pay rent. I doubted “grown up” meant thirteen, but I could manage the “paying rent” part. Hopefully. 

I offered one last prayer to Poseidon and the Mother as Cairo went to announce us.

“Director Hart, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Miss Jillian Anfersan,” he said in a matching forgery of the Capitol accent. It seemed that everyone on the Mainland tried to be as haute as possible. I was doomed.

“Yes, Cairo. I haven’t got all day. You said she’s thirteen?” He looked me over, head to toe.

“Yes, sir, but she’ll be fourteen in a few weeks. Plus she’s sharp as a fish-hook and twice as strong.”

“Prove it.” He motioned to a corner of the expansive office that I hadn’t noticed before. “Lift the submersible and set it on the table.” 

Hastening to obey, I grasped the dense metal handles in both hands and lifted. Straining under what must have been a hundred pounds, I stopped at waist-height. 

“Señor Hart,” I said, cursing myself for forgetting the Mister, “It would not be wise to place this on the table. You would have to buy a new table; the sub would snap it in two.”

“I know,” the Dockmaster said with a smile. As I set it down slowly, I wondered what he must think of me. “Where would you have it go, then?”

“To the bottom of the ocean, sir,” I answered with more confidence than I felt. “Unless under repair or out of commission, that is where all submersibles belong.”

“And what do they do there?”

“They collect information about the seawater for the aqua-engineers. Temperature, pressure, wave patterns, information about aquatic species…” It was straight out of Cairo’s textbook. Submersibles were one of the Dockmaster’s special interests; I’d heard plenty about their origins. “But they were originally created for war, to seek out the enemy and sink their ships.”

“Spot on!” Director Hart laughed a deep laugh from his corpulent belly. “The Dark Days, and all that.” His attitude made it appear as if he doubted there ever were dark days. As if he doubted the war itself had ever happened.

“Well now,” he was continuing. “You’re too scrawny for any kind of fishing, and you’d need something with hours to work around your school-day…” His eyes gleamed, and I saw to my satisfaction that they were as dark as mine. “I might have an idea.”

“Sir, we had discussed the possibility of Jillian becoming a lifeguard, since she’s –”

“Hush, Cairo, I haven’t forgotten your recommendation. Now it’s my turn, and for once I do believe I’m one step ahead of our golden boy.” He gave me a wink, and I nearly laughed. Cairo was getting exasperated.

“Well, she wouldn’t make a good aqua-engineer, I can tell you that,” he said in a childish tone.

“Don’t worry,” the Dockmaster answered. “I wasn’t going to make her your baby-sitter. As a matter of fact,” he swiveled in his chic office chair to face me…

“I’ve got more important fish for you to baby-sit.”

And that is how I became a lifeguard for our district’s Hunger Games training center.


	2. David and Terran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s like this,” Terran explained as her dark eyes bore into mine. 
> 
> “If I’m a trainee, I’m preparing for the fight of my life. In the Arena, there are no lifeguards. There are no second chances. Nobody’s going to fish you out if you jump into shark-infested waters, or if you’re hit in the head with a heavy pole and you fall unconscious into water. Most of the training you’ll see in the pool is about avoiding the open water, but occasionally they’ll have to get to it to escape a fire or whatnot. It’s strategically imperative that you not interfere unless absolutely crucial. Do you understand?”

The Training Center does not officially exist in District Four. On the maps, it’s designated as a “Wellness Facility” and runs alongside the hospital buildings. As if anyone here would be able to afford a “wellness facility”.  
Hidden in plain sight, the structure would be majestic on its own, but sandwiched between the high-rise treatment facilities, it barely draws any attention. That was how those inside liked it. The trainers spent ten months each year preparing for one day, the Reaping Day, when their trainees would volunteer to fight to the death in the annual Hunger Games.  
As far as the trainees go, it is impossible for me to recall that year without mention of one name: David.  
My first meeting with David Corsair was fairly embarrassing. I had come in early on my first day at the center, and mistakenly believing he was the trainer I was supposed to follow, I introduced myself and started asking questions. Rather than embarrass me, the tall teenager, who looked older than his seventeen years, sat with me and answered my questions until the real trainer came.  
“Ey!” she barked loudly, her voice dragging with our Island dialect. “I didn’t tell you to sit down and wag your tongue; don’t you know that would get you killed in the Arena? Now on your feet and give me thirty like you’re being chased by two tributes throwing knives!” The lanky teen took off sprinting zig-zag down a yellow-lined trail, and reeling, I tried to collect my thoughts.  
“So, you’re Jillian, then?” I must have nodded, as the short, dark skinned woman stuck out a tough hand for me to shake. “Good. Rule One: This place isn’t officially real. None of what you see or hear leaves these walls. To the outside, you work in a wellness facility, where the nonexistent rich and famous of District Four can go to relax and escape the pressures of city life in an air-conditioned gym with a pool.”  
She laughed the raspy laugh of a smoker. “Rule Two: Don’t distract the trainees.”  
“I’m sorry,” I could feel myself turning red despite my best efforts. “I thought he was the trainer; I didn’t know any better.”  
“And he wasn’t about to correct you. That dog.” She scowled as I’d never seen a woman scowl before. “That’s David for you. By the way, I’m Terran. I wasn’t a Hunger Games tribute, but I am a trainer at the Center. The real head puta in charge is Sirene Oliverre,” she pronounced it slowly [“See-ren’-ay Oh-liv-air’”] in a mocking tone. “She and her partner won the 31st Annual Hunger Games and took over from Mags, who won the 22nd, and so on. We haven’t had another win in almost eleven years, so everyone is pretty livid about that, but they’re convinced David and Lorelei are going to change that.” She clapped her hands together. “But that’s just me gossiping.” She grinned. “Now, to the pool.”  
We spent the rest of the day going over my duties as a lifeguard. I have to say, it was the strangest experience of my life. I was supposed to step in and save a trainee not at the first sign of a struggle, but only when it looked like they were actually going to drown.  
“It’s like this,” Terran explained as her dark eyes bore into mine. “If I’m a trainee, I’m preparing for the fight of my life. In the Arena, there are no lifeguards. There are no second chances. Nobody’s going to fish you out if you jump into shark-infested waters, or if you’re hit in the head with a heavy pole and you fall unconscious into water. Most of the training you’ll see in the pool is about avoiding the open water, but occasionally they’ll have to get to it to escape a fire or whatnot. It’s strategically imperative that you not interfere unless absolutely crucial. Do you understand?”  
“I think so,” I said doubtfully. “But what do I do if one trainee gets another one submerged and the other can’t breathe?”  
“Let them try and fight free,” she answered too quickly for my comfort, “And if they can’t, blow your whistle and go get them out. You’ll have to a few times, I’m sure, but usually by that point in their training, they’re good enough in the water to manage it. We don’t even start aquatics practice until the sixth month.”  
“How long have David and the others been in training?”  
“That one?” She rocked back on her heels and counted in her head. “A ver… He came to us nine years ago, when Lorelei was seven and had been here for a year already. The good ones always start young.”  
“Nine years…” At thirteen, I couldn’t imagine nine years of anything. “And the bad ones?”  
“The unfortunates who get rejected, you mean?” Terran’s eyes hardened against her ebony skin. “Well, some of us became dock workers and fishers, of course. Some found work in the offices on the Mainland. But others weren’t so lucky.” I knew what she meant: street gangs were prevalent in the Keys, and trained fighters with no other hope didn’t stand a chance in the real world. “I was lucky.”  
“You trained? For how long?”  
“Pues, the year I turned eighteen was the 30th Games, the year before Sirene won. I don’t usually try to remember tributes we lose, but I couldn’t forget Rima and Jaq. They were good people, good kids.” Suddenly the far off look in Terran’s eyes was interrupted as David returned, his face ruddy and breathing heavy from his thirty laps.  
“It’s about time you finished. Get back to Sirene and the others; they’ll be wrapping up dinner, and if you’re lucky, she’ll give you something.” Despite the exhaustion he must have felt, there was a twinkle in David’s sea-green eyes.  
“Sí, Señora,” he said with a wink. “Right away.” And before she could retort, the blonde trainee was bounding off around a corner.  
“Oh, wait!” He called as an afterthought. “Great meeting you, Jill.”  
I shouldn’t skip ahead and write this, but David died in that year’s Games. I got to work with him and Lorelei for one year before watching him go off and die on national television. There was something different about his death. We were used to seeing our tributes get stabbed, shot, and strangled, but never at the Cornucopia Bloodbath. Never on the first day.  
People began to speak of tampering; there were rumors of foul play.  
One day, I mentioned this to Cairo. We were out on his skimmer, a low-energy watercraft he probably shouldn’t have been allowed to drive.  
It was our custom to spend Saturdays out on the water, watching the birds and occasionally swimming. Fishing was illegal, but sometimes we did that, too. We knew how to make hooks, and if we ate the fish ourselves, nobody had to know. But that day we just sat in the water. The 42nd Games had ended months ago, but the Victors Parade was beginning soon.  
“I can’t believe I have to watch them,” I said cautiously.  
“Who?”  
“The victors, of course. Ajax and Demetria.” The former had stabbed David in the ribs at the Cornucopia. I remembered watching our tribute on the countdown, his usually straight figure hunched slightly, and wondered aloud. “Could it have happened? Someone in the Games hurt him before the start?”  
“I don’t know.” I could see Cairo’s mechanical reasoning. “You knew him well, observed him often, and you told me his balance was off. It wasn’t shown on the cameras, but no doubt he would want to hide that if…” Cairo let that sentence trail off. “What does it matter? David’s dead, and the truth can’t bring him back.”  
“That’s harsh.”  
“Oh, Jillian. I didn’t mean it like that.” He awkwardly set his hand on my shoulder, as though following instructions for ‘How to Comfort the Grieving’.  
“No, I get that. But it seems like… everything’s different now.”  
“It’s your first year at the Training Center. This is the first time you’ve lost a tribute. Is it possible that your lack of experience is the only difference?”  
“Maybe.” I was still doubtful. “But Sirene and the others, they’re acting strangely.”  
“Strange how?”  
“They’ve held secret meetings after lights-out; I’ve heard whispering while I was locking up the Center.” I realized how this must sound to him. “It’s stupid; I’m over-reacting.”  
“Perhaps.” He lifted his arm to press his fingers to his temples, typical Cairo fashion. “Perhaps they only want to grieve in secret, so they can present a strong front to the world. Or…” He paused.  
“Or what?”  
“Perhaps you’re more observant than I gave you credit for.” From anyone else, that would be an insult. From Cairo, I was almost complimented.  
“¡Oy! Gracias.” I gave him a brotherly punch on the arm. “Come on, let’s head back.”  
“Ya, vamos.” Cairo spun the wheel about, and the skimmer sputtered and made waves for the shore.  
For a few weeks, I didn’t give another thought to that conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I don’t have a beta for this, so feedback is appreciated.


End file.
